The Act Becomes the Art of Growing Up
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: Maybe he's just the only one who has shown her kindness, the only one who has opened his arms to her and embraced her scars.:: For Blue.


A/N: Written for Blue! Week 5 of the Gift Giving Extravaganza, and I'm still going strong. Enjoy, dear! Also, the story title and the lyrics for each section come from "Sic Transit Gloria (Glory Fades)" by Brand New which, sadly, I don't own.

I.

"He is the lamb, she is the slaughter. She's moving way too fast, and all he wanted was to hold her."  
.

The war is over. Charlie tries to repeat the fact as often as possible. The war is over. The suffering has ended. If he tells himself as much again and again, maybe it will make things better.

It doesn't, of course. The wounds are still raw and stinging, unable to close and heal. So he waits and hopes as he repeats the mantra like a lifeline.

The war is over. The war is over. The war is over.

OoOoO

More people frequent the pubs now than they had before that long stretch of dark times. Charlie can hardly blame them. They're all drinking to let the alcohol numb their senses and sterilize the wounds of loss. He's no different.

The young witch sits alone, head bowed so that her hair will hide her face. Still, between little breaks in the curtain of honey curls, Charlie can see the raised pink-white scars. Lavender Brown. Another one of Greyback's unfortunate victims.

Charlie wonders what she's seeking. Numbness? Oblivion? Either way, it doesn't look like she wants company, but Charlie offers it anyway, moving to sit beside her.

"Fancy another drink?"

She gives a ghost of a smile. In spite of the scars that warp her flesh, she's still beautiful. "I'd love one."

OoOoO

It becomes an evening routine- meeting in their shadowy corner, calling to Aberforth for more drinks, talking about their literal and figurative scars.

He wants to move on, to grieve, to forget. She wants to be normal again, to feel beautiful, to forget.

"I used to think I was just a pretty face," she tells him bitterly. "I guess now I'm nothing."

He tells her it's not true, but Charlie doubts she believes him.

OoOoO

Charlie can't remember how many drinks they've had tonight, but it's enough that she invites him to her flat, and he accepts without question.

Lavender wobbles and stumbles, crashing into him. He wraps his arms around her, trying to be her rock, trying to steady her even though he's shaking like a leaf.

She kisses him, all tongue and teeth and traces of liquor.

"Lavender," Charlie mumbles, but his slurred words are muffled against her lips, and Lavender doesn't seem to hear him.

Her hands roam freely, fingers dancing over every inch of him they can reach. She moves her lips over cheek, down his neck, kissing and nipping little marks over exposed flesh.

"Lavender," he tries again. Charlie is gasping for air, grasping for control of his senses, but Lavender seems perfectly at ease.

His grip around her tightens, and he clings to her desperately. Charlie wanted to be her rock, but he's too lost, too unsteady.

"Tell me I'm beautiful," she whispers.

"You're beautiful."

But she doesn't believe him.

II.

"Nothing that he tells her's really having an effect. He whispers that he loves her, but she's probably only looking for se so much more than he could ever give."  
.

At night, more often than not, he ends up in her flat. Their relationship becomes a strange sort of war.

He's steady, gentle, calm. She's a wreck, forceful, and demanding. And they clash so imperfectly.

She's beautiful. Despite it all- the pressure, the crashing, the blurring of need and desire- he reacts; he falls.

"Lavender."

Now he doesn't say her name in protest. It's a verbal caress, his heart poured out into three syllables.

"Charlie."

But her voice isn't that of a lover's. Her voice is rough and raw, saturated with wanting.

OoOoO

They don't talk anymore, not really. Idle chat, clipped and formal, replaces the old discussions of dreams and wishes.

"You're beautiful," he tells her.

She fakes a smile and pulls him closer. "You're sweet."

"I love you."

Sometimes, he wonders if she's deaf when it comes to tender words. Greyback's damage is more than lines of scars over delicate skin. She's hard, unmoved by sincerity, and it's all the werewolf's fault.

"Don't talk," she mumbles, her mouth slanting over Charlie's as she guides Charlie onto the bed.

He wants to speak, but he bites back everything he wants to say, everything she doesn't want to hear.

OoOoO

He lays motionless beside her, the blanket draped over their bare frames. Beside him, Lavender sleeps, calm and unaware.

Charlie watches for a moment. In sleep, she looks so innocent, so peaceful. He wishes she could still be like that when she's awake.

Humming to himself, a soothing little lullaby, Charlie traces a gentle finger over her scars. She thinks they make her ugly. He thinks they make her strong.

And he's just as scarred. Years of working with dragons have left marks that refuse to fade.

If her scars are ugly, what is he? Charlie has never dared to ask because he's afraid of what she might tell him. Maybe he's just the only one who has shown her kindness, the only one who has opened his arms to her and embraced her scars.

"I love you," he says, because when she's asleep she can't silence him. "I'm sorry."

He can't keep giving her what she's looking for, and she can't give him what he needs. They've tried to make things work, but some things aren't meant to be.

Charlie leans down, placing one last kiss over the scars closest to her lips. Without another word, he climbs out of bed and dresses before walking away without looking back. 


End file.
